Chinese Puzzle

by Warren Murphy

  “I was brought up believing that,” Remo said.

  She smiled, a small warm smile. “You must be careful, capitalist. The seeds of revolution may lie in you ready to sprout forth.”

  She reached forward with her leg, and touched her knee to Remo’s under the table. He could feel her trembling. Since the hotel room in Boston, she had studiedly spent her time, signaling Remo with touches and rubbing. But Remo had reacted coldly to them. She had to be kept close and obedient, and the best way was to keep her waiting.

  By the flicker of distaste in Chiun’s eyes, Remo could tell the waiter was returning. Remo watched him in a mirror over the entrance way, walking angrily back down the floor toward them, three dinner plates extended up his arm.

  He stopped alongside the table, and placed one in front of Remo. “For you, sir.”

  He placed the second in front of Mei Soong. “And for the lovely lady.”

  He dropped the third one on the table in front of Chiun, and it splashed small drops on the table top.

  “If we were to return in one year,” Chiun said, “these drippings would still be here. Chinese, you know, never wash tables. They wait for earthquake or flood to jar dirt loose. It is the same with their bodies.”

  The waiter walked away, back toward the kitchen.

  Mei Soong squeezed Remo’s leg between both of hers under the table. As women always do in such situations to disclaim ownership of the brazen legs, she began to chatter incongruously.

  “It looks good,” she said. “I wonder if it is Cantonese or Mandarin.”

  Chiun sniffed the plate containing the usual jellied mass of colorless vegetables. “Mandarin,” he said, “because it smells like dog. Cantonese smells like bird droppings.”

  “A people who would eat raw fish should not cavil at civilization,” she said, spooning vegetables into her mouth.

  “Is it civilized to eat birds’ nests?”

  And they were off again.

  But Remo paid no attention to them. In the overhead mirror, he could see back through the round door windows into the kitchen where the waiter stood, talking to the young man who had spotted them on the street. The man was gesturing, and as Remo watched, he snapped his fatigue cap off his head and slapped it across the waiter’s face.

  The waiter nodded and almost ran back through the swinging doors. As he passed their table, he mumbled under his breath.

  “What did he say?” Remo asked Chiun.

  Chiun was still playing with his spoon in the vegetables. “He called me pig.”

  As Remo watched, the waiter picked up the phone in front and dialed. Just three digits. A long one and two shorts. It was the emergency number of the New York City police.

  But why the cops? Unless he had been told to try to separate the girl from Remo and Chiun? What better way than to have the police grab them and spirit the girl off in the shuffle? Remo couldn’t hear the waiter’s words whispered into the phone, but he leaned over and whispered to Chiun. “We’re going to have to split up. You get the girl back to the hotel. Make sure you’re not followed. Stay with her. No calls, no visitors and don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

  Chiun nodded.

  “Come on, we’re going,” Remo said to the girl, disengaging his leg from between hers.

  “But I haven’t finished.”

  “We’ll get a dragon bag to take it home.” The police might be helpful. It might set it up so that any contact with the girl would have to come through Remo.

  They walked to the front counter, where the waiter was just hanging up the phone.

  “But you haven’t had your tea?” he said.

  “We’re not thirsty.”

  “But your cookies?”

  Remo leaned across the counter and grabbed his arm, above the elbow. “You want to hear your fortune? If you try to stop us from going out that door, you’ll have a busted rib. Can your inscrutable mind fathom that?”

  He reached into his pocket and tossed a ten dollar bill onto the glass counter. “Keep the change.”

  Remo led the way down the flight of stone stairs into the street. At their appearance, the five men in the field jackets, who had been lounging against the building across the street, started to walk toward them.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Remo told Chiun, “You can go through that alley at the end of the street and grab a cab. I’ll catch up to you later.”

  Remo stepped off the curb into the street, as Chiun took Mei Soong roughly by the arm and started walking off to the right, toward the Bowery. Remo had only to cover him long enough for him to reach the alley. There was no way anyone could catch up to Chiun in darkness, even with the girl as excess baggage.

  Just then, the waiter stepped onto the top step and shouted, “Stop, thief!” The five men looked up at him, momentarily. Remo looked over his shoulder to his right. Chiun and the girl were gone. Vanished. As if the earth had opened and swallowed them.

  The five young Chinese also saw that their target had vanished. They looked up and down the street, then dumbly at each other, then as if to take out their rage on something, they charged Remo.

  Remo was careful not to hurt them. When the police arrived, he did not want the street cluttered with bodies. Too many complications. So he just moved in among them, dodging their punches and kicks. The waiter was still screaming at the top of the stairs.

  Just then, a prowl car turned onto the narrow street. Its whirling red lamp shot slices of light along the buildings on either side of the street. The young Chinese saw it, and they took to their heels, toward the end of the street and the narrow alley where a car could not follow them.

  The police car pulled up alongside Remo and stopped with a squeal of tires on the cobblestone street.

  As the two policemen jumped out onto the street, the waiter shouted to them: “That’s him. Hold him. Don’t let him get away.”

  The two policemen stood alongside Remo. “What’s it all about, mac?” one of them said. Remo looked at him. He was young and blond and still a little frightened. Remo knew the feeling; he had experienced it in those early days on the force. Back when he was alive.

  “Damned if I know. I came out of the restaurant and five thugs jumped me. And now he’s yelling like a lunatic.”

  The waiter had walked up alongside the three of them now, still careful to keep back from Remo. “He hit me,” he said, “and ran off without paying the bill. Those young men heard me yelling and tried to stop him. I want to press charges.”

  “I guess we’ll have to take you in,” the second policeman said. He was older, a veteran with patches of gray hair at the temples under his cap.

  Remo shrugged. The waiter smiled.

  The older policeman steered Remo into the back seat of the squad car, while the younger officer helped the waiter close up.

  They returned to the car and slid into the front seat, while the older cop sat in beside Remo. Remo noticed that he sat with his gun side away from Remo. Standard procedure, but it was good to know that there were still some professional policemen around.

  The precinct house was only a few blocks away. Remo was marched in between the two policemen and stood in front of the long oak desk, reminiscent of all those he had stood in front of himself with prisoners in tow.

  “Assault case, Sergeant,” the older patrolman said to the baldheaded officer behind the desk. “We didn’t see it. Do you have one of the squad around to handle it? We want to get back before that festival breaks up.”

  “Give them to Johnson in back. He’s free,” the sergeant said.

  Remo wanted to hang around long enough to make sure the police had a record of his address. So he could be traced. Long ago, he had been given two authorized ways of dealing with an arrest.

  He could do whatever physical had to be done. Of course, that was out of the question, since he was willingly going to leave his name and address, and he didn’t need 30,000 cops looking for him at his hotel.

  Or, the other way, he was
allowed one phone call. He could call the number in Jersey City.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JEAN BOFFER ESQ., 34 YEARS OLD and a millionaire twice over, sat on the brown plush sofa in his penthouse living room, looking across the 71 square yards of lime green carpeting that had been laid that afternoon.

  He had taken off his purple knit jacket and carefully removed from its inside pocket the little electronic beeper that was to signal him whenever his private telephone line was ringing.

  He had worn the beeper for seven years, and it had yet to beep.

  But he was a millionaire twice over because he was willing to wear it all the time, and because, if the private telephone line ever rang, he would be ready to do whatever had to be done. Without knowing it, he was the private, personal counsel to a professional assassin.

  Just then, as he held the beeper in his hand, it went off, and he realized that in seven years he had never heard the sound it would make. It was a staccato, high-pitched squeak, but it was muffled at that moment by the bell of his private telephone line which was also ringing.

  He reached over, carefully, not quite knowing what to expect and picked up the white telephone without a dial. The beeper went silent.

  “Hello,” he said, “Boffer.”

  “You’re a good lawyer, I hear,” said a voice which was supposed to say “You’re a good lawyer, I hear.”

  “Yes. I think the best,” which was what Jean Boffer Esq. had been told to say.

  Boffer sat up smartly on the couch and placed the book of forensic medicine carefully on his coffee table.

  “What can I do for you?” he said casually.

  “I’ve been arrested. Can you spring me?”

  “Is there any bail set?”

  “If I wanted to get out on bail, I’d pay it myself. What can you do about getting the whole thing dropped?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was set up. A restaurant in Chinatown. The owner says I assaulted him but he’s full of crap. I’m being booked now.”

  “What restaurant? Is the owner still there?”

  “Yeah, he’s here. His name’s Wo Fat. The restaurant’s the Imperial Garden on Doyers Street.”

  “Keep the owner there until I get there. Diddle around. Tell the cops you want to press counter-charges. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.” He paused. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “My name is Remo.”

  They hung up simultaneously. Boffer looked over at his wife who was wearing large pilot earphones, listening to a private stereo concert and putting polish on her fingernails. He waved at her and she pulled off the earphones.

  “Come on, we’re going to get something to eat.”

  “What can I wear?” She was wearing a white pants suit with gold brocade trim. It would have been appropriate for the captain’s dinner on a Bahama cruise.

  “We’ll stop and buy you a field jacket. Come on, let’s go.”

  His car was waiting downstairs, and he slid behind the driver’s wheel, and tooled the expensive car north on Kennedy Boulevard to the Holland Tunnel approach. They were in the tunnel before either of them spoke.

  “It’s a case, isn’t it?” his wife said, easing imaginary wrinkles from the front of her white pants suit.

  “Just an assault. But I thought it was an excuse for a meal.”

  He pulled out of the tunnel, smiling to himself as he always did when he saw the Port Authority’s incredible overhead sign which looked like a bowl of spaghetti run amok.

  He eased his car into Chinatown, its streets dark and empty now, littered with zeppole shreds and crusts of pizza.

  He stopped in front of the darkened Imperial Gardens Restaurant.

  “But this place is closed,” his wife said.

  “Just a minute.” He walked up the steps to the second floor entrance of the Imperial Gardens. The restaurant was darkened with only the faint glow from a 71/2 watt nightlight shining in the rear of the main dining area. He peered in through the glass, noting in the glow the location of the tables around the kitchen door.

  With his left hand, he felt up the side of the door, trying to find the external casing of the hinges. There was none.

  He went back down the steps, three at a time, and reentered the car. “We’ll eat in 15 minutes,” he said to his wife, who was refreshing her lipstick.

  The police precinct was only three blocks away, and he left his wife in the car as he went inside and walked up to the sergeant behind the 30-foot long oak desk.

  “I’ve got a client here,” he said. “Remo something.”

  “Oh yeah. He’s in the detective’s room. Him and some Chinaman are screaming at each other. Go right in, and look for Detective Johnson.” He waved toward a room at the end of the large open room.

  He walked in through the swinging wood door gate, to the open door. Inside he saw three men: one a Chinese; one sitting at the typewriter laboriously pecking out a report with two fingers was obviously Detective Johnson. The third man sat in the hard wooden chair, leaning back against a file cabinet.

  Through the doorway, Boffer could see the skin slightly paler and tighter over his cheekbones, the mark of plastic surgery. The man’s deep brown eyes looked up and burned into Boffer’s for a moment. The eyes tipped off on everyone. But not on his new client. His eyes were deep brown and cold, as emotionless as his face.

  Boffer rapped on the open frame of the door. The three men looked at him.

  He stepped inside. “Detective Johnson, I’m this man’s attorney. Can you fill me in?”

  The detective came to the door. “Come on in, counsellor,” he said, obviously amused by the striped purple suit. “Don’t know why you’re here? Nothing much to it. Wo Fat here says your client assaulted him. Your client is filing counter charges. They’ll both have to wait until arraignment in the morning.”

  “If I could talk to Mr. Wo Fat for a minute, maybe I could clear the whole thing up. It’s more of a misunderstanding than a criminal thing.”

  “Sure, go ahead. Wo Fat. This man wants to talk to you. He’s a lawyer.”

  Wo Fat rose and Boffer took his elbow and steered him to the back of the room. He shook his hand.

  “You run a fine restaurant, Mr. Fat.”

  “I’ve been in business too long to allow myself to be assaulted.”

  Boffer ignored him. “It’s a shame we’re going to have to close you down.”

  “What do you mean, close down?”

  “There are very serious violations at your establishment, sir. The exterior doors, for instance, open inward. Very dangerous in the event of a fire. And very unlawful.”

  Wo Fat looked confused.

  “And then of course, there’s the seating plan. All those tables near the kitchen doors. Another violation. I know you run a fine establishment, sir, but in the interests of the public, my client and I will have to go into court with a formal complaint and bring about your closing as a health menace.”

  “Now, we should not be hasty,” he said in his oiliest style.

  “Yes, we should. We should withdraw the charges against my client immediately.”

  “He assaulted me.”

  “Yes sir, he probably did. In outrage at being caught in a restaurant which is an outright fire trap. It’ll be a very interesting case. The publicity from the papers might hurt your business for a while, but I’m sure it will blow over. As will the stories about your assaulting a customer.”

  Wo Fat turned his hands up. “Whatever you want.”

  Detective Johnson had just reentered the room carrying two blue sheets used for booking.

  “You won’t need those, Detective,” Boffer said. “Mr. Fat has decided to drop charges. It was just bad temper on both sides. And my client will drop them too.”

  “Suits me,” the detective said. “Less paper work.”

  Remo had stood up and already had taken a few steps toward the door, in a smooth glide.

  Boffer turned to Wo Fat. “That’s c
orrect, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’ve made no threats against you or any offers to induce you to take this action.” He whispered, “Say no.”

  “No.”

  Boffer turned to the detective again. “And of course I stipulate the same for my client. Will that do?”

  “Sure thing. Everyone can go.”

  Boffer turned to the door. Remo had gone. He was not outside in the main room of the precinct.

  Out in front, his wife had her window rolled down. “Who was that lunatic?” she said.

  “What lunatic?”

  “Some man just ran out. He stuck his head in and kissed me. And said something stupid. And messed my lipstick.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That’s the biz, sweetheart. That’s what he said.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  REMO WAS NOT FOLLOWED BACK TO the hotel. When he went into his room, Chiun was sitting on a sofa, watching a late night talk show host who was trying to probe the hidden significance of a woman with a face like a footprint, who had raised yelling and shouting to an art form.

  “Where’s Mei Soong?” Remo asked.

  Chiun pointed over his shoulder toward her room.

  “Anybody follow you?”

  “No.”

  “By the way, how’d you do that down at the restaurant? Disappear, I mean?”

  Chiun smirked. “If I tell you, then you will go tell all your friends, and soon everyone will be able to do it.”

  “I’ll ask the girl,” Remo said, walking toward her room.

  Chiun shrugged. “We ran up a flight of stairs and hid in a doorway. No one thought of looking up.”

  Remo snorted. “Big deal. Magic. Hah.”

  He walked into the next room and Mei Soong purred at him. She walked toward him, wearing only a thin dressing gown.

  “Your Chinatown is very nice. We must go back.”

  “Sure, sure. Anything you want. Has anyone tried to contact you since you got back here?”

  “Ask your running dog. He allows me no freedom or no privacy. Can we go back to Chinatown tomorrow? I have heard that there is a marvelous school of karate that no visitor should miss.”